The Sun From Both Sides
by SignSeeker
Summary: There is nothing wrong with starting over. [My take on the beginning of season four for George and Izzie.]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Everything _Grey's Anatomy_ related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)

The Sun From Both Sides

"_To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott_

* * *

-Chapter One-

Izzie waited at the church, like an idiot, for three full hours after the rest of the guests had cleared out. Izzie waited, and hoped, and waited some more.

Then she went home.

When she got there, the lights were all out, and when no one answered her call of greeting, Izzie assumed she was alone. Until she arrived at the bathroom door, and opened it to find Meredith and Cristina laying motionless on the floor, like two puppets whose strings had been cut.

Now, six hours after a wedding that had never taken place, seven hours after her confession of unrequited love, Izzie was leaning against the doorframe, half-in and half-out of a place she knew well. She felt like she had spent the last six months on a journey only to find that, just when she should have been reaching her destination, she was back at square one, full circle to the place she where had been left after Denny's death.

This time, at least, she was not alone.

Meredith, finally seeming to acknowledge Izzie's presence, raised one hand to gesture to the floor, an invitation. Izzie hesitated briefly, and then, with a wry shake of her head, walked over to lower herself next to Cristina. She didn't feel like lying down, though. Instead, she sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, cheek resting on the smooth satin of the bridesmaid dress she still wore.

Beside her, Cristina breathed, slow and steady. Mechanical. On Cristina's other side, Meredith's breathing was quiet, for once, and Izzie might not have believed she was doing it at all if she could not see the rise and fall of her friend's chest in her peripheral vision.

It wasn't quite like last time. Last time, Izzie had been numb, uncaring of herself or her surroundings. Izzie wasn't numb this time. She almost wished she were, because feeling _hurt_. There was the sting of disappointment, and the ache of sadness, but Izzie was used to dealing with those emotions by now, and took a certain comfort in their familiarity, in the knowledge that she was capable of dealing with them because she had dealt with them before.

So, no, it was not like last time. But it still sucked.

It sucked because it was supposed to be simple. Izzie had told George that she loved him, and he was supposed to say it back: cue happy music; roll end credits. But that's not how things ended up. Instead, George hadn't said anything at all, and now she had no idea what to think. Izzie was an optimist, but she was getting a little fed up with having her hopes crushed. She wished she were more like Meredith, a realist, a person who didn't wear her heart on her sleeve all the time.

But then, Izzie reflected, glancing across Cristina to where Meredith was staring blankly up at the ceiling, the realist didn't seem to be faring any better.

Izzie was an optimist, but she was not delusional. She believed in a lot of things, but after Denny, she knew better than to believe in fairytales. George had made his choice, and now Izzie had to live with it. She had promised to support him, to be his friend, and Izzie did not break her promises easily. So, she would go to the hospital, and see him, and smile, and somehow manage to keep on smiling as he talked to her of starting a family with Callie. She would smile as he told her about due dates, asked her advice about baby names, and complained about 3a.m. feedings. Izzie would smile, because that's what friends did, and above all she wanted to remain George's friend, even if it meant letting him break her heart over and over again.

Visions of children with George's eyes and Callie's hair danced before her eyes, and for a moment, Izzie felt dizzy, nauseous. She was grateful for the hard floor beneath her that reminded her that she was not actually spinning endlessly down into a dark well of despair.

A hitch in Cristina's carefully patterned breathing pulled Izzie from her thoughts. Up until then, the three of them had been silent and still, afraid to move for fear of breaking. When she spoke, Cristina's voice was quiet, but it shattered the stillness just the same.

"Burke left me."

Izzie didn't quite know what to say to that, how to make it anything but true. She didn't know how to make it better, so she didn't say anything at all.

After a few moments of renewed silence, Meredith let out an audible breath. "I left Derek."

Another pause followed that confession, but this one felt strained, and Izzie realized it was because this was where she was supposed to profess something, too. So Izzie shrugged, because now that she'd told him, it no longer felt like a secret she had to keep, and said, "I'm in love with George."

There was quiet as they contemplated this.

Then, Cristina let out a noise that was half-snort, half-sob, and said, disgustedly, "We are pathetic."

Izzie smiled despite herself, and just like that she knew that they would all be all right. Eventually.

After that, they didn't speak again, each lost woman lost in her own thoughts. But Cristina's comment had drained the tension from the room, and by the time she noticed the early morning light spilling through the window, across the floor, Izzie had come to a decision.

She would not be that person who didn't get over things, who lay down and fell into depression just because not everything was going as planned. Izzie wanted to be better than that, to rise above the place where life had led her. She wanted to break out of the circle, and make her own path.

There was a distant buzzing that she took a moment to recognize as the alarm clock going off in her bedroom down the hall. It was that sound, so familiar, so completely ordinary that it somehow seemed incongruous to the situation at hand, that finally made her move. Izzie exhaled, and with that expulsion of breath, she finally felt light enough to rise.

Meredith and Cristina watched her climb to her feet, stared at her as she stood looking down at them with the rueful, knowing expression of someone who knew exactly what it was going to take to survive.

"It's time to get up," Izzie said, extending a hand to each of them. "We've got work to do."

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George's alarm clock went off at 4:45 a.m., the way it had every day for the past year. But, for the first time in a year, George didn't get up.

Beside him, Callie shifted in her sleep, but didn't wake. She was used to sleeping through his alarm, since residents didn't have to be at the hospital quite as early as interns.

Which was what George was.

Still.

There was a part of him that couldn't believe that he had failed the thing he had spent a whole year of his life working toward. That part of George was screaming at him to get up and _go_ already, so that Bailey wouldn't kick his ass from here to Chicago for being late.

But a greater part of George knew that he wasn't going anywhere. His test results had made that perfectly clear. He was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that Callie slept like the dead, because if she were awake, they would have to talk, and George had no idea what he could say to his wife- who had ranked first in her year after her exam, and who had just been named Chief Resident- that would make her understand why he couldn't go in to the hospital today.

She had wanted to talk about it last night, when she'd arrived home from Cristina and Burke's disastrous wedding to find George curled up in a ball on their bed. But, looking into her earnest, anxious face, George hadn't been able to find the words. Instead, he'd rolled away from her and stared at the glowing red numbers of his digital clock, where his gaze remained fixed the rest of the night.

The doctor in him said it was shock, the inability of his mind and body to deal with the situation he had found himself in. All George knew was that he felt as if he were disappearing, like little bits of him were breaking off and drifting away. The only thing that was holding him together were the stark, predictable numbers on the LCD screen in front of him.

Now it was 4:45 a.m., and the significance of those numbers, the ones he had woken up to so many times before, jolted his thoughts into wakefulness. Memories of times spent at the hospital rushed unbidden to his mind, and closely linked to those were the people he had shared those times with. Alex, Cristina, Meredith- his thoughts snagged on Izzie, and George, who had believed himself to be numb by that point, felt a fresh wave of loss wash over him.

He was suddenly drowning in thoughts of her. There was a time when this would have made him smile, when memories of his friend were happy things that helped him through particularly grueling days. Now, though, thoughts of Izzie were laced through with pain, so that George couldn't even remember the good things without being overwhelmed by his wanting of her, without being reminded of what he couldn't have.

So George tried to stop thinking, tried to go back to that numb state where everything was dulled by indifference. But, now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop. It was enough to drive him from the bed in a fit of desperation, and he stumbled upright in the dark. Maybe if he were moving, he wouldn't have to think.

It seemed a good enough theory, so George shut down his brain, and let his body take control. His hands grabbed his keys and wallet from the bedside table, and his feet carried him across the room to the door- so far, so good. He opened it- and here one hand betrayed him, hesitated there, and considered the woman he was leaving without a word on the other side. But then, thankfully, his legs took over, and carried him away to the elevator instead. His finger pushed the button that would take him to the parking garage, and once he arrived there, his body took him to his car, and folded itself inside. One foot hit the gas pedal, and then he was moving even faster than before.

For two hours, George managed not to think about anything but the road ahead of him, until he arrived at his destination, and realized it was exactly where he needed to be.

He congratulated his body on being so wonderfully effective without his brain.

George climbed out of the car, walked up the worn stone path toward the house, and knocked on the door. After a few minutes, a woman in a yellow terrycloth robe answered, her eyes widening in surprised recognition as she got a good look at the figure in her doorway.

"George!" she exclaimed.

"I need to stay here for awhile," George said, without preamble.

Mrs. O'Malley looked her son up and down. She took in the dried tear tracks on his cheeks, the way his shoulders slumped in the rumpled tux he wore, the dullness in his normally bright blue eyes. Her brows knit in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Everything."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Everything _Grey's Anatomy_ related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)

The Sun From Both Sides

_"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott_

* * *

-Chapter Two-

Izzie walked into Seattle Grace that morning fully resolved to make amends with George, to get things back to the way they had been before their mutual run-in with a bottle of bourbon.

She was completely committed to getting her best friend back, so when she entered the locker room to find it empty except for a few nervous looking girls who could only be part of the new group of interns, Izzie was more than a little disappointed. On the heels of that disappointment came bafflement as she took in George's open and empty locker.

Had he changed lockers to be further away from her? Obviously, she had to resolve things quickly.

Izzie lingered in the locker room a bit longer than usual, but when George failed to walk through the door, she gave up, not wanting to be late for rounds on her first day as a resident.

It was strange to not have to report to Bailey, to make her own calls about which patients to see, and what to do. That, combined with the lack of George, unsettled Izzie to the point where she felt like she was a stranger in a place that just yesterday had felt like home.

She kept expecting to find George around the every corner, to run into him at the clinic, or coming out of surgery. The worse was the elevators: every time she entered one, Izzie half-expected to find him inside, waiting for her. Apparently, though, her luck wasn't that good.

Yet, while George appeared to have dropped off the face of the planet, Callie seemed to be freaking _everywhere_. Izzie couldn't pick up a chart without running into her friend's dark-haired wife.

And it was a little nerve-wracking, coming face-to-face with a person she both envied and feared, the one person who Izzie felt could break her just by existing. But Callie was also the only person who could tell her, with any degree of accuracy, where George was hiding. So, finally, Izzie decided to bow to the inevitable. The next time she bumped into Callie at the nurse's station, she put on her brightest smile, swallowed her pride, and said, "Hey, Callie. How's it going?"

Callie, evidently, was not fooled by her performance, because her only response was to arch one perfect eyebrow and ask, "Something you need, Stevens?"

Izzie's smile dimmed a few watts, but she forced herself to carry on. "Uh, yeah, actually. Do you know where George is?"

Callie stared at her for a moment, the beginnings of a sneer on her pretty face. "You mean you don't know?"

Izzie shook her head, a bit uncertainly.

"He was gone when I woke up," Callie said slowly, as if trying to decide how much to reveal. "I figured he went crying to you."

That surprised Izzie. "Why would he 'go crying' anywhere?"

"Because he failed his intern exam."

Izzie felt like she had just been doused in cold water. "What? No. No, that's not possible."

"I'm afraid it is," Callie confirmed, and even Izzie, as stunned as she was, could hear the pity in her voice.

Shaking her head as if to clear it, Izzie asked, "Where is he now?"

"I told you: I _don't know_." Callie spoke deliberately slow, as if to a particularly stupid child, but Izzie was too distracted by her anxiety for George to really take offense.

"What are you going to do? I mean, you're Chief Resident now- there must be something you can do to help him…"

It was Callie's turn to shake her head, sadly. "I feel terrible for him," she said, "I really, really do. But he failed." She gave a helpless shrug. "There's nothing to do but start again."

But that was unacceptable to Izzie. The entire situation was unacceptable. Hadn't George been through enough? Hadn't he fought every step of the way to get where he was now? She couldn't understand why it wasn't enough.

"Callie," Izzie started, "can't you- "

"Look, Stevens," Callie interrupted. "I have patients to see. George probably just needs time to think things through. I'm sure he'll be back soon." But she didn't look as certain as she sounded.

Then, before Izzie could say another word, Callie turned and walked away. Izzie stared after her, confused, and more than a little annoyed on George's behalf. Callie was Chief Resident. She had real power now- why wasn't she using it when her husband needed it the most?

But where Callie already seemed to have resigned herself to the situation, Izzie had not. And she was sure George hadn't, either. Who knew where he was at that moment? Probably alone, and wallowing in misery, she thought. If it were Izzie, she would have been at the bottom of a bottle of vodka, by now. Dealing with stressful situations was not one of George's strengths: Izzie knew this. He didn't think rationally when he was in pain. She needed to find him, and help him. But how?

"Dr. Stevens?"

The nurse that had appeared at her side pulled Izzie from her thoughts. The woman had obviously been trying to get her attention for a while.

"Sorry," Izzie said, giving her an apologetic smile. "Yes?"

"The lab results are back on Victoria Jenkins. I thought you'd want to know."

"Great," Izzie nodded, taking the chart from the nurse's hand. "Thank you."

And just like that, it was back to business: her worries about George would have to wait.

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The rest of the morning passed in a blur of noise and blood, and Izzie didn't know whether she was grateful for or frustrated by the distraction. Thoughts of George weighed heavily at the back of her mind, just waiting for a lull so they could rise to her full attention.

They got their chance when Izzie took a break and headed to the cafeteria for lunch, which was where Alex found her, staring morosely into her Caesar salad.

"Hey," he said, dropping his tray on the table with a loud smack as he sat down across from her.

Izzie jumped in surprise. "Alex!" she snapped angrily. "What the hell?"

Alex raised both brows at her choice of greeting. "Well, aren't we Miss Bright-and-Shiny today."

"Sorry," Izzie muttered. "You just startled me."

Alex shrugged, and took a bite of his turkey-on-white. Izzie studied him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "You know, you aren't looking so shiny yourself…"

"Yeah, well, I don't want to talk about it either," he said pointedly.

"Fair enough," Izzie agreed.

It was then that Meredith showed up, looking as if she'd seen a ghost.

"What's wrong?" Izzie asked, momentarily side-tracked from her own troubles by the paleness of her friend's face.

"My sister," Meredith said, slumping into the seat next to her. "My half-sister, whose mother just died, and who shares a father with me, is here. She's an intern."

"Holy crap," Izzie breathed.

"Yeah," Meredith nodded. One thin hand came up to rub wearily at her temple. "And, to make things even better, she's McBarWhore."

"Mc_who_?" Alex asked.

"She's that girl," Meredith explained. "The one Derek met at the bar. The girl who was the best part of his week is my sister."

There was a pause as they all let the gravity of that sink in. In her mind, Izzie weighed Meredith's situation against George's, and came to a conclusion.

"Okay, Meredith, that definitely sucks," Izzie told her. "But there's something that sucks even more."

Meredith stared at her in disbelief. "What could possibly suck more than the fact that my estranged father's favourite daughter is working here?"

"George didn't pass his intern exam."

"Oh," Meredith said, the indignant expression melting off her face. "Crap."

"O'Malley failed?" Alex asked, incredulous.

Izzie nodded. "According to his _wife_." She practically spat the last word.

Cristina, who was looking much more like herself in scrubs and with her curly hair pulled back into a messy bun, arrived just in time to hear the news. "Bambi failed?" she asked. "Seriously?"

"So seriously," Izzie confirmed with a sigh. "You guys, what are we going to do?"

"What can we do?" Cristina shrugged, taking the last spot at the table. "It was a regulation test. He failed." A dark look suddenly crossed her face, and she stabbed angrily at her pasta salad. "Glad to know I'm not the only person whose life plans got screwed all to hell."

Alex glanced worriedly at the fork she held, and made a show of shifting away from her. Izzie was too distressed to be amused.

"We have to do something!" she cried. "George is in serious trouble, here."

Her tablemates exchanged a significant glance. Izzie was acting disturbingly similar to the way George had when she had been missing.

"Look, Izzie," Meredith said in a calming voice. "Obviously, we need to give George our sympathies, and try to cheer him up, but I don't really see what else we can do."

Izzie turned to her, narrowing her eyes. "He can't repeat his intern year! It's not fair! Come on, Meredith," she pleaded, "he was there when you messed up. He talked to the Chief…" She trailed off, an idea turning itself over in her mind. "That's it! We can talk to the Chief! He'll know what to do: he knows everything. I'll talk to the Chief, and George can come back, and everything will go back to the way it should be."

She finished her speech with a grin, and stood from the table, abandoning her lunch to stride determinedly out of the cafeteria. Her friends stared after her, their expressions a range of amusement, worry, and shock.

After a few moments, Alex turned back to his meal, wondering if there would ever be a time when there wasn't drama at Seattle Grace. As he tore the cover off his pudding cup, he glanced around, suddenly becoming aware of something. "Hey," he said. "Where is O'Malley, anyway?"

No one had an answer for him.

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Despite her intentions, Izzie wasn't able to find time to talk to the Chief until her shift was nearly over. As it turned out, she just barely caught him as he was leaving the hospital for the night, briefcase in hand, striding fast toward the door.

Izzie ran a few steps to intercept him. "Dr. Webber!"

He glanced at her, looking slightly irritated. "Sorry, Stevens, I can't talk now. I promised Adele I'd be home in time for dinner."

"Please," Izzie said, moving to block his path. "This won't take long."

They stared at each other, each willing the other to back down. Then the Chief sighed, and relented. "Fine. Walk with me."

"It's about George," Izzie began, as they headed toward the parking lot. "I know that- "

The Chief stopped her with one raised hand. "Wait," he said. "If this is about O'Malley's exam results, you should know that there isn't anything I can do. He failed- "

"No," Izzie interjected, shaking her head. "I was there, I studied with him- George knew the material. There's no way he failed that test. It just doesn't make sense!"

"The results would say otherwise."

"Then you have to give him another chance."

"My hands are tied," the Chief told her, gesturing helplessly. "It's regulation, Stevens."

"But Meredith- "

"There were extenuating circumstances in Grey's case." They had reached his car, and the Chief turned to face her. "Look, I appreciate that you're concerned, but that's not your job here, Stevens. Your job is to take care of your patients, not to worry about my staff."

Izzie frowned. "Worrying about George is my job. I'm his best friend, and if worrying isn't already in the job description, then it definitely should be."

The Chief reached out and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Tell O'Malley I'm sorry, but there isn't anything to be done. I've reserved a spot for him in the intern program, but that's the best I can do."

She stared at him, eyes begging. "Please."

His hand dropped away. "Sorry, Stevens." He got in his car, and shut the door.

Izzie watched him drive away, her heart heavy with disappointment.

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------****A/N: **About Callie... okay, I'll admit she's not my favourite character, particularly when she is around George, but I have good reasons for making her act the way she does in this chapter. Firstly, she was actually quite disconcerted that George disappeared on her. I mean, she woke up and he was gone, so naturally, she's worried about him, and I see Callie as expressing her worry as anger/indifference. I think this is fairly evident on the show, as well, and makes for an interesting contrast with Izzie's emotional reactions. Secondly, she's talking to _Izzie_, and Izzie is definitely one of Callie's weak points. I think if she were talking to, say, Addison, her attitude would be a bit different.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are adored.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Everything _Grey's Anatomy_ related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)

The Sun From Both Sides

_"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott_

* * *

-Chapter Three-

Izzie spent the next few days in a worried daze, her anxiety building as more and more time passed without George in it. She was not so far gone, however, that she didn't notice that she wasn't the only one affected by George's absence.

Callie was a complete bear, her worry obviously being channeled into her work. She was short with everyone, snapping at residents and interns alike, but she was especially cold to Izzie. She seemed to feel that Izzie had information she wasn't sharing, even though Izzie had told her repeatedly that she had no idea where her husband was. Callie was keeping everyone on edge, and even though she understood the reason behind it, Izzie couldn't help but feel that Callie's behaviour served as a harsh reminder that she was their boss now, trumping even Bailey in influence.

The net effect of all the tension and anxiety Izzie experienced was exhaustion. For the past two nights, she had arrived home and gone straight to bed, skipping dinner in favour of sleep. Yet, even while sleeping, Izzie couldn't escape thoughts of George. She missed her friend.

On the third morning after George's disappearance, Izzie woke to a ringing phone. She was instantly wide-awake, hope rising with the thought of George finally calling to let her know he was all right.

She grasped the phone from her beside table, and brought it to her ear, rushing out a quick, "Hello?"

"Hello…" The voice on the other end was female, and anxious. "Is this Isobel Stevens? Or Meredith Grey?"

"This is Isobel. Who is this?"

"Oh," the voice sounded relieved. "I'm so glad I've got the right number. This is Louise O'Malley. I'm calling about George."

Izzie's heart skipped. "Is he all right?" she asked eagerly. "Do you know where he is?"

"He's…fine. He's actually come home for a visit."

"Oh, thank god!" Izzie let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I am so mad at him for making me worry!"

Mrs. O'Malley chuckled nervously. "Yes, well, actually, I'm a bit worried myself. That's why I'm calling, you see, because I have tried everything I can think of to get him to talk to me, and he just won't. And he's not eating properly, and he hasn't smiled once since he got here, and I just don't- " She stopped, sounding as if she were on the verge of tears.

"Mrs. O'Malley," Izzie said softly. "Please, is George there? Can I talk to him?"

The woman on the other end of the line sighed. "No, I'm afraid you can't talk to him, because he doesn't even know I've called you."

"Sorry?" Izzie asked, confused.

"I'm his mother," Mrs. O'Malley said sadly, "and I can see that something has broken his heart, but he won't talk to me." She sniffed, and Izzie guessed she was truly crying now. "He won't talk to me, and he won't let me call his wife. But he didn't say anything about his friends…" She trailed off, and then said, hopefully, "Will you come here? Try to talk to him?"

Izzie didn't even have to think about it. "Of course I'll come."

After jotting down directions from an elated Mrs. O'Malley, Izzie immediately opened her closet and pulled out a duffel bag, stuffing a few sets of clothes inside. She went to the bathroom to add her toothbrush and a few other necessities, and then hurried down the stairs.

Meredith, who was sitting at the kitchen table, watched in surprise as Izzie rushed past her toward the door. "Izzie, what-?"

"I'm going away for a few days, Meredith," Izzie hurriedly explained as she grabbed her keys from the rack beside the door. "See you later!"

It wasn't until she had backed out of the driveway and was driving away from the house that Izzie realized she had no idea what she would say to George when she saw him. She was quick to push back her doubt though, deciding that the more imperative issue was getting there: she would know what to say when she saw him.

A thought struck her, and Izzie reached for her cell phone. She flipped it open and dialed a familiar number.

"Hello, Chief? It's Izzie Stevens."

An exasperated sigh came over the line. "Look, Stevens, I already told you, there's nothing I can do- "

"Actually," Izzie said. "That's not why I'm calling. Well," she reiterated, "it is, sort of, but not really. I need to take some of my vacation time."

A pause. "Now?"

"Yes."

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George spent most of his first few days home staring out the window of his old bedroom. It was a nice view. His room was on the second floor of the O'Malley's 19th century farmhouse, and he could see most of their property from it, all the way to the line of cedars that marked the boundary between the lawn and the road. In the distance, mountains were just visible behind foothills that were dotted with pine trees. Closer, across the road, cattle grazed in their neighbour's pasture; closer still, in their own yard, ducks swam in the pond his father had dug and shaped himself. It was beautiful, and quiet, and George had absolutely hated it at first, a high school senior plucked from the suburbs of the big city he had grown up in, and placed on an isolated acreage that lay between two sparsely populated towns two hours east of Seattle. It had been his parents' dream, though, to move out to the country, and George had eventually grown to love it, working with his family to make the run-down old estate into a home of which they could all be proud.

But, George wasn't really paying attention to the view. He was too lost in his own thoughts, questions running through his mind like water, their current pulling him down and under, unable to move. He felt ineffectual, useless, like there was nothing he could do right. He had failed his marriage; he had failed his career. He couldn't even get the spot at Mercy West, now.

And Izzie… God, he couldn't even think her name without feeling like his heart was being ripped out through his chest. And it was all his fault.

_Georgie Porgie pudding and pie, __Kissed the girls and made them cry…_

The lines came unbidden to his mind, an old nursery rhyme his brothers had used to tease him with, and he couldn't help but think that they were true. Why did he hurt the women who were most important to him? Meredith, Callie- and now Izzie, too, the one person who had always made him feel as if he were a better man than he actually was, just because he had her for a friend.

George thought back to the day of the Ferry Incident when he had been desperately searching for that woman's son, Chris, and how the boy had been right under his nose the entire time. He thought about how that was becoming a reoccurring theme in his life, ignoring the things that were right in front of him. Izzie was the destiny he'd never realized he had, and now it was too late.

"George."

From the doorway came his mother's voice, cautious and tinged with undirected sympathy. And that was another source of guilt, because George hadn't been home since before his father died, and now that he was, he was being distant and uncommunicative. But how could he tell his mother, who had been so proud of her son the day he'd been accepted to medical school, that he had failed her in more ways than she could even imagine?

"Yes?" he asked, without turning.

"If you don't have any plans, I was hoping you could help me out around the house today."

George sighed, still unable to face her. "I don't really feel like- "

"Actually, sweetheart," his mother interrupted, her voice kind but firm, "that wasn't really a request."

George almost smiled at that. Her words were phrased the same way they had been when he was growing up, when she had assigned him and his brothers their daily chores.

"The lawnmower is still in the shed," she continued. "I'm sure you remember where."

He nodded, and rose to cross the room. His mother's eyes tracked him, and George could see the worried gleam in them. He laid a hand on her shoulder as he passed, knowing he was troubling her, but lacking words of comfort. There wasn't even anything he could think of to comfort himself.

He headed down the hall to the bathroom, where he relieved himself. As he was washing his hands, George caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink, and he frowned at the three-day growth of beard on his face. He didn't care enough to do anything about it, though.

When he came out of the bathroom and headed back down the hall, he passed his mother changing the sheets in what had been Ronny's room. She smiled at him as he passed. There was something secretive in her expression, and it made George wonder briefly whom she was making the bed for, but he didn't bother to ask.

Outside, it was warm, the late-morning sun beating down over the yard. As he was walking toward the shed, George noticed just how overgrown everything was, and the guilt that had never really left him flared up again. He had never really considered how difficult it must be for his mother to keep up the place without his father around to help. His brothers, he knew, stopped by as often as they could, but they had their own lives to attend to, and could only do so much. As he climbed onto the red ride-on mower, George silently vowed never to neglect his responsibility to his family so badly again.

Mowing the lawn was mindless work, and George found his thoughts drifting again. He thought about the women he'd loved, starting with the wife he'd left behind in a hotel bed in Seattle.

He loved Callie, or he'd thought he did. He had always been wanting, and Callie was the first person who had ever really wanted _him_ . She made him feel desirable, even when he had still been reeling from Meredith's rejection. But he and Callie had always been chasing each other, pushing, rushing, running. Even now, bound together as they were by vows and rings, they were still rushing, still trying to be something George wasn't sure they'd ever become.

With Meredith, it had been different. George had seen Meredith from across a room, had their whole future together mapped out before he had even worked up the courage to ask her name. Ironically, it had been in that same room that Izzie had risen up beside him, like the sun; had told him her name, and asked for his in return. George had welcomed her warmth then, but he couldn't recall what Izzie wore that night.

Now George was cold. He missed the warmth, the brightness of his best friend. She was always there, constant as a star, so he had taken her for granted, hadn't paid attention when he should have.

He was paying attention now, as he rounded the corner of the house and came face-to-face with the last person he expected to see, the same person who had been haunting his thoughts for days.

Izzie stood in the driveway with a bag over one shoulder, her hair done up in a loose ponytail, sunglasses on her head. She smiled that sunbeam smile of hers, and George killed the motor on the lawnmower, too shocked to do anything but stare.

Under his gaze, Izzie's smile faltered a bit, and there was a nervous edge to her voice when she said, "Hello, George."

"Izzie," he breathed in reply, because he hadn't realized until that moment how badly he'd needed to see her.

And yet, her proximity was an abrupt, painful reminder of everything he had left behind, and George was suddenly irrationally angry that she had dared to show up here. This was his sanctuary, and Izzie had no right to come here, to dredge up an ocean of want and need with just one smile.

George forced himself to climb down from the mower, his movements choppy with resentment. He stood a good distance in front of her, but it was close enough to see the confusion building her in eyes as she read the anger in his.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then George found his voice again.

"Izzie," he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Everything _Grey's Anatomy_ related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)

The Sun From Both Sides

"_To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott_

* * *

-Chapter Four-

"Izzie, what the hell are you doing here?"

It wasn't exactly the greeting Izzie had been hoping to receive when she arrived at the O'Malley home.

The drive had taken her longer than she would have liked: she had gotten lost twice on the twisted country roads, and the supposedly two-hour trip had ended up almost twice as long. George couldn't have picked a better place to hide: this place really was in the middle of nowhere.

And now that she was finally here, exhausted and still fighting off a bit of motion sickness from the winding roads, it was to discover that George, whom she had been worried sick about for days, apparently didn't even want to see her. He stood before her, his posture defensive, a baleful expression on his face; wearing a grass-stained shirt that was soaked with sweat, and sporting a patchy beard that made her think, for some strange reason, of Meredith's Dirty Uncle Sal. And despite all of it, he still, somehow, managed to make her glad to see him.

It kind of made her want to hit him. Hard.

Instead, Izzie crossed her arms over her chest, and glared back. "Classy, George," she said. "What the hell do you _think _I'm doing here? You just ran out on us!"

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked, raising his voice enough that it made her flinch. "You have no idea, Izzie. You have no idea! How could I stay after…" He trailed off, seemingly unwilling to go on.

But Izzie knew what he was trying to hide from her.

"I know about the exam."

George visibly paled, but she saw his eyes harden. "Then you know," he said, voice soft and cold as snow, "that there is nothing here you can fix."

There was an emphasis on the 'you' that made her cringe. He was doubting their friendship, doubting _her_. It was a painful thought, and Izzie's anger evaporated under the glaring hurt it sparked within her.

George must have seen something of that hurt in her eyes, because his own softened before shifting away, down and to the ground. His voice was quiet when he murmured, "I can't deal with this right now, Iz. I just can't."

"George," Izzie said evenly, waiting until he met her eyes again before continuing, "I told you that no matter what you chose, I would support you. You made your choice. I'm here as your friend."

George shook his head. "How did you even _get_ here?"

"I invited her."

They both turned at the sound of the new voice. George's mother stood on the porch, watching them. The interruption effectively broke the tension, forcing Izzie and George to push their confrontation aside for a later time.

Once she had their attention, Mrs. O'Malley began walking down the porch steps, toward Izzie. "Hello, Isobel," she said warmly, holding out one weathered hand.

Izzie took it with a smile. "Hello, Mrs. O'Malley. Please, call me Izzie."

George's mother returned the smile. "Then you must call me Louise." She turned to her son, who was gaping at the exchange. "Georgie, you're a mess. Go shower and then come say a proper hello to your friend."

George seemed too confused to argue. With a last, puzzled glance at Izzie, he headed inside the house. Both women watched him go, identical somber expressions on their faces.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A bit later, Izzie sat alone at the dining room table, as Mrs. O'Malley busied herself with refreshments in the kitchen. Izzie had offered to help, of course, but the older woman had been insistent on giving her guest the 'proper' treatment.

"It's the least I can do," she'd said, and Izzie had worried a bit over just exactly what George's mother was expecting from her. She wanted to help George, but she still hadn't quite figured out how.

The question settled uneasily at the back of her mind, and Izzie decided to distract herself with her surroundings, taking in George's family's home with keen eyes. The interior of the house was done up in pale yellows and greens; the wooden floor and accents were a deep, varnished brown. The colours reminded her a bit of Meredith's house, but they seemed brighter without the shadows cast by a well-known tragic history.

The walls of this particular room were adorned with photos of what appeared to be generations of O'Malleys, and rather than looking cluttered, it made for a nice, homey effect. Spotting a younger version of George in one of them, Izzie made a mental note to take a closer look at the pictures later.

The tablecloth and matching curtains of the dining room had been stitched by hand, and she traced her fingers over the flowered patterns, thinking of the care that must have gone into making them. The entire house was warm, and open, and it made her feel welcome, wanted. It was somehow exactly what Izzie had been expecting of the O'Malley home, and it made her smile.

"Here we are," Mrs. O'Malley said, as she entered the room carrying a tray that held two glasses of lemonade and a plateful of cookies. She set it down on the table, placing one of the glasses in front of Izzie.

"You have a beautiful home," Izzie told her, picking up her glass. It had little fish on it, hand-painted in blue and orange.

Mrs. O'Malley beamed with pride. "Thank you," she said. "Harold and I worked on it for years. It was our dream." Her voice went wistful, and Izzie was reminded that this family, too, was not without its losses.

Izzie bit her lip, unsure of what to say, but Mrs. O'Malley saved her by holding out the plate of cookies. Izzie took one, gratefully, suddenly very aware of the fact that she hadn't yet eaten that day.

"These are amazing!" she exclaimed, swallowing one bite of ginger cookie and eagerly taking another.

"I made them this morning," Mrs. O'Malley told her. "They're Georgie's favourite."

"I didn't know that," Izzie said. She added it to her mental list of foods that George liked, right between apple-cinnamon muffins and peach cobbler.

"When he was a child," said Mrs. O'Malley, "he used to beg me to make them. He was always underfoot in the kitchen, and I got so fed up with him asking that I eventually just showed him how to make them himself. I think he's only made them once, though. He claims they don't taste the same when I'm not the one making them." She smiled. "For George, it's not the food, but the comfort he gets from seeing it being made, seeing that much love and care put into something."

Izzie nodded, understanding. "I like to bake, too," she said. "And when we lived together, George always seemed to be in the kitchen while I was doing it." She paused, considering. "Though, that might've just been because he knows I sometimes bake when I'm upset, and he wanted to make sure I was all right."

Mrs. O'Malley smiled fondly in agreement. "My Georgie certainly doesn't like to see people upset. One time, when he was small…"

They continued in the same vein for a while, trading tidbits about George, who was the common thread that ran between them. Eventually, though, the conversation stalled, and Izzie realized it was because they had both been waiting for him to appear. The shower had stopped running a while ago, and house was quiet, almost uncomfortably so.

At length, Mrs. O'Malley said, "I'll just go and fetch George, then."

"Let me," Izzie told her, rising from the table. "We didn't quite finish our conversation before."

The other woman nodded, and Izzie took a deep breath before heading up the stairs to face her friend.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She found him in his room, sitting cross-legged on the quilted bed, staring out the window.

George sensed someone hovering outside his door, and turned to find Izzie leaning against the frame, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. She was wearing a plain green tank top and old jeans, nothing special, but he thought she looked lovely all the same.

His next thought was that he was obviously an idiot for thinking at all.

"You might as well come in," he said, forcing his eyes away from her. "Since you obviously want to settle this now."

Izzie gave an exasperated sigh, but came to sit on the end of the bed anyway, folding her legs up underneath her so that she mirrored his position.

"George," she said, "this really hasn't ever been about what I want. But I _would_ appreciate it if you'd stop acting like such a brat."

George narrowed his eyes at her. "That's not a very nice thing to say to someone whose life has just been completely ruined."

"Drama Queen," Izzie muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Bitch," George countered, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For a second, it was almost like normal, almost like none of it had ever happened.

Izzie killed that fantasy with her next words, spoken softly, but with real gravity:

"So, what are you going to do now?"

George's hands came up to rub at his temples, the beginnings of a headache setting in. "I don't know. What can I do? I messed up, Izzie, and now I have to live with it."

In his peripheral vision, he saw her lean forward, reach for him, and George automatically leaned back, away from her touch. Izzie frowned, and he could see the hurt in her eyes.

"You chose Callie," she said, "I know, I get it. I'm not going to try to jump you or anything like that. But I'm your friend, George. Let me be there for you, like you were for me."

George started to disagree, but then stopped himself, not quite sure what exactly he was disagreeing with. Instead, he sighed, and asked, "She's the one who told you about my exam?"

"Yes."

George nodded: that figured. Callie never could hold her tongue when Izzie was involved, just like Izzie never seemed to be able to stop herself from saying things about Callie. He should have seen it for the warning it was.

Just another one of the signs he had missed along the way.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For snapping at you before, outside. You didn't deserve it."

"It's- " Izzie paused, reconsidering. "Well, it's not okay. But I understand. The way we left things…"

"Yeah."

There was a short, painful silence. He didn't want to be having this conversation, not now. But Izzie seemed to be searching for words, her mouth working as she tried to find the right ones.

"You never came," she finally said, quietly. "To the church, I mean."

George shook his head. "I didn't know what… You can't say things like that to me, Iz, and expect me to- "

"I know," Izzie told him, but she didn't apologize for anything she'd said, and George was unaccountably grateful for that. He was tired of hearing apologies for the truth.

It all seemed to hit him at once, then, wave after wave of self-loathing and regret rushing down over him.

"I don't know what to do, Iz," George found himself saying. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do." He looked up at her, eyes pleading. "Tell me. Tell me what I should do."

"George…"

There was pity in her eyes, and he hated that, so he closed his. "Please," he whispered, voice cracking. "Tell me."

Izzie reached for him again, and this time he let her. Her arms tightened around him as George finally allowed himself to fall apart.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later, with the tears wiped from his face, George lay on his back next to Izzie, staring up at the ceiling.

He was exhausted from his breakdown. It was as if everything had been drained out of him, leaving only an empty shell behind. It made him feel lighter, like he could just float away and cease to be, but Izzie was a warm, solid presence by his side, and George grounded himself with the familiar feel of her.

The silence between them was comfortable in a way that it hadn't been for a long time, and though he was loath to break it, George felt that some things just had to be said.

"Iz?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," Izzie agreed, and George felt her shift to face him. "I was just about going out of my mind before your mother called me."

"I told her not to, you know," he confessed, voice apologetic.

"No," Izzie said, shaking her head, "you told her not to call _Callie_." She paused, a slight grimace on her face, as though she didn't really want to continue. "You should though. Call Callie, I mean."

George stared at her.

"She's really worried, George," Izzie told him seriously. "You need to call her."

George nodded, slowly. "I know. I will." But he didn't move.

Izzie seemed to feel she'd done her part, and shifted onto her back again. But George wasn't quite ready to slip back into the quiet.

"Part of why I left," he said, feeling the sudden need to explain himself, "was because I didn't know how to talk to her about the fact that I failed."

Izzie was silent, listening.

"She's Chief Resident now, she has everything. And I don't even have a job." He paused, before admitting, "I don't know what to be if I can't be a surgeon."

Izzie took a fortifying breath. "You can still be a surgeon," she assured him, sounding certain enough that he almost believed her. "You just need to go back, and- "

"Repeat my intern year?" George interrupted. "No way. That's pathetic, you said so yourself," he reminded her.

Izzie frowned, raising herself up on one elbow. "Well, I was wrong. We're allowed to make mistakes, George. That's what I learned this year, what I know. We're not supposed to be perfect."

It was reminiscent of what she'd said to Nina a few weeks ago, and George knew that she had meant that speech just as much for him as for their patient. He mulled the words over in his head, thinking now as he had then that it was a painful sort of wisdom she shared.

Izzie was still a moment, before saying; "There's nothing wrong with starting over. I did it. You can do it, too."

It occurred to George then, that Izzie might be the only person on the face of the planet who could understand what he was going through. After all, she had lost a future, too. That thought struck him hard, and George wanted to smack himself for being so selfish. He reached down for her hand, and knotted their fingers together.

"Thank you," George whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.

Izzie squeezed back, hard, before letting go to lift her fingers up to his face. She studied his eyes as she brushed her thumb lightly over his chin, and George almost didn't flinch beneath her touch.

If Izzie noticed, she pretended not to. "This is new," she commented.

It took George a moment to realize what she meant, and then he raised a hand to his cheek, felt the bristles there. "Oh." He blushed. "I'd forgotten about that."

"You know, I was thinking earlier that this beard makes you look like a dirty old man."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "Really."

"Hey, it could be worse," Izzie started, and George waited, recognizing the sparkle in her eyes. "You could be Meredith."

This was a game they'd been playing for a long time; whenever one of them was having a bad day, it was the other's job to offer consolation by making a comparison to their rather unfortunate mutual friend.

"She broke up with Derek, if you can believe that," Izzie continued, "and her _sister_ is one of the new interns."

"I know," George said. "I met her, actually."

"Really?" Izzie sounded surprised. "When?"

"While I was cleaning out my locker."

"Oh."

An awkward silence followed the exchange, and George forced himself to break it.

"Iz," he said softly. "I had to. I couldn't stay."

"I know," she told him. "I just wish you would try."

Izzie settled back down beside him, and they were quiet once more. George searched out her hand again, tapped a playful pattern into her palm. Izzie wrapped her fingers around his, and George knew that they were all right. It was comforting to know that, despite all the mistakes he'd made, this one thing, the friendship he shared with this person, remained intact. In that moment, he was both humbled by the strength of their bond, and heartbroken that he hadn't recognized it sooner for what it really was.

A little while later, when the afternoon light was just starting to fade from the room, he found himself asking, "When are you going back?"

The question had just tumbled out of him, and now that he'd asked it, George was a little afraid of the answer.

Izzie turned her head and gave him a look. "George," she said, "you're an idiot."

And he'd already known that, thanks, but if she was teasing him, there might be hope. "Yeah…"

"I'm not going back until you're ready to come back with me."

"Seriously?"

Izzie smiled. "Seriously."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Everything _Grey's Anatomy_ related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)

The Sun From Both Sides

_"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott_

* * *

-Chapter Five-

George woke the next morning feeling like a new person. It was funny, because not all that much had changed. He'd still failed his exam, still cheated on his wife, and still broken his best friend's heart- but there was hope now. Because if Izzie could show up here, after everything he'd done to her, if she could still want to be his friend, then there must be hope for him.

And that made all the difference.

The future was still unknown, yes, but it no longer felt like a gaping void, a black hole that would pull him down into oblivion. It was time to make some decisions, figure out a new direction. So what if his road had been blocked? There were always other ways to go. Izzie had reminded him of that.

His thoughts flashed back to the previous night, to laying here next to his best friend and talking with her in that completely open way they had before- before Denny, and Callie, and life had gotten in the way. It should have been awkward, maybe, given all that had happened between them, but it hadn't been. It had been wonderfully refreshing, in fact. But then, George couldn't recall a time when he'd ever really been uncomfortable around Izzie. So perhaps it wasn't that surprising after all.

Reckoning he'd done enough self-reflection for the moment, George rolled out of bed, stood, and stretched, enjoying the feel of well-rested muscles contracting and relaxing beneath his skin. His face itched, and he scratched at it, felt the beard beneath his fingertips. That would have to go, he decided, and then shook his head, amused. Maybe this decision-making thing wouldn't be as difficult as he thought.

On his way to the bathroom, George passed Ronny's room and saw Izzie's bag on the bed. He smiled. That solved his mystery from yesterday: he would have to remember to thank his mother.

After shaving and showering, George headed back to his room to get changed. He'd realized a few days ago that since he hadn't brought any clothes with him- aside from the tux- his options were somewhat limited. Today he settled on an old plaid button-up shirt and a rather faded pair of jeans that were a bit tighter than he remembered them being. When he reached for the zipper, his wedding band flashed, a gleam in the mid-morning light, and George's positive thinking came to a sudden, screeching halt.

_Callie._

The thought of her was laced with a poisonous combination of resentment and guilt, and that seemed wrong to him. It shouldn't feel like such a burden to be married. It wasn't right, and Callie certainly didn't deserve it. But as much as George feared the idea that he might have been wrong about his decision to marry her, the evidence was getting difficult to deny.

He still needed to call her, though. No matter what, he at least owed her that.

George reached for his cell phone, his fingers like lead as they dialed the number they'd learned by heart over the last few months. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Callie."

"George!" she exclaimed. "Oh, my God! Where _are_ you?" Her voice was concerned, but there was a threatening undertone to it that meant she was upset with him. Not that he blamed her, of course.

"I'm- I needed to... I had to clear my head, get away from the city for a while." He'd always found it hard to get the words right with Callie.

"You ran away?" she asked, disbelieving. "George, you have responsibilities here. The intern program has already started!"

George cringed. He didn't _think_ she meant to make him feel like a total loser, but that was the effect. "Well," he pointed out, "it's not like I haven't been through it once already."

"I was really worried," Callie told him.

"I know. I'm sorry. I just couldn't _be_ there anymore," he repeated.

"Where are you, exactly?"

For a moment, he didn't even want to tell her, didn't want to risk the chance of her intrusion. But he made himself say, "At my mother's house."

"And when are you coming back?" she demanded.

George sighed. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Come back tonight." She phrased it like a suggestion, but it came out sounding more like an order.

"I.. no. No, I'm not ready yet."

"George you can't just get up and _leave_. I'm your wife. We're supposed to see these things through together, remember?"

Her words pierced like bits of diamond, crystal-clear shards of realization. Because, yes, they were supposed to handle tough situations together, as a unit- but Callie wasn't the person who had made him feel better, the person whom George had needed, and he was starting to wonder if she ever would be.

"I'm sorry, Callie," he said softly, but firmly. "I'm not coming back yet."

The anger that followed seemed inevitable, and George bore it steadily, like pressing on through a heavy wind. Her words fell over him like hard rain, but he forced himself to stand firm. It pained him, to think that he had misjudged their relationship so badly, that he had misjudged _himself_.

George's hands were shaky when he finally replaced the phone on its stand, after Callie had hung up on him. He couldn't decide if he was angry or disappointed. Why couldn't she understand him the way Izzie did? His father had said that Callie "got him", and George would be lying if he said those words hadn't influenced his decision to propose. But he wondered how true they were. Nothing had ever come easily in their relationship: why had he thought rings and vows would change that?

His good mood from earlier felt like a distant memory, but George made himself keep moving, made himself go downstairs and face the morning.

His mother and Izzie were at the kitchen counter, smiling over something in a magazine, and the sight of them together warmed his heart a little. They looked up when he entered the room.

"Good morning, Georgie," his mother smiled. "I hope you're hungry." She gestured to a plate of waffles on the kitchen table. "There's strawberries and homemade whipped cream, too."

"Thanks," George said, "but I'm not really hungry."

His mother's face fell and George instantly regretted his words.

"George," Izzie started slowly, her voice gradually gaining intensity as she went on. "Your mother and I have been slaving in this kitchen for over an hour. We care about you, and you need to eat." She put her hands on her hips. "So sit down, shut up, and eat your freaking waffles!"

George was sitting down with a fork in his hand before he realized it. Once he had gotten over the initial shock, he shot her a glare.

Izzie beamed at him. His mother just looked amused.

"Well," she said, raising a brow at Izzie, "it looks like you've got everything under control here." She turned to George. "I'm going in to teach a class this morning. Why don't you show Izzie around the town? It's a beautiful day."

George nodded, his mouth full of waffle.

"All right then," Mrs. O'Malley said, picking up her purse from the counter. "You two have a nice day."

"Thanks, Louise," Izzie said, giving her a little wave as she headed out the door.

"Bye," George said, swallowing.

They heard the front door close, and then there was a brief, relaxed quiet. George helped himself to another waffle, discovering he was hungry after all.

"I thought your mother was retired," Izzie queried, pouring herself a cup coffee from the pot on the counter. She gestured to the pot, offering, but George declined with a shake of his head.

"She is, technically. But sometimes she substitutes at the local school. Says it keeps her active, or something."

"What does she teach?"

"Mathematics."

Izzie made a face. "That was my least favourite subject."

George grinned. "I loved it."

"Of course you did, with a mother who knew all the answers. I'll best you aced it every year."

George shrugged modestly, but the smile stayed on his face.

"You shaved," Izzie noted, coming to sit down across from him, coffee in hand. "Looks much better."

"Thanks." He paused, before blurting out, "I called Callie."

Izzie blinked at the non sequitur. "Oh?"

"She wants me to come back."

"Well, obviously."

"I told her I couldn't."

"Ah." She paused. "Did you tell her that I'm- "

"No. I didn't really think that would be a good idea," George said, adding, "She was mad enough already."

Izzie frowned, and then said, almost apologetically, "I think she knows, George."

George nearly choked on a strawberry. "What?"

"She's been kind of... hostile toward me. More so than usual. I think she knows- or at least suspects."

George turned that over in his head. It didn't really change much. At first, keeping what he'd done with Izzie a secret had seemed paramount in importance, but now, things were fraying so fast in his relationship with Callie that it hardly seemed to matter. Just another thread to unravel.

"She hasn't said anything to me about it."

"No," Izzie muttered, "she wouldn't."

There was a dark look in her eyes that George didn't like at all, and he decided to change the subject.

"So, did you want to see what passes for a town around here?" he asked, standing up to take his dishes to the sink.

Izzie didn't seem to mind the topic change. "Sure," she said, with a brightness that was only half-forced. "I was actually hoping to pick up some ingredients... I want to bake your mother something for letting me stay here."

He was always a bit amazed by her generosity. It was one of the things he liked most about her. "You don't have to do that," he said honestly.

Izzie shrugged, half-smiled. "I want to."

"Then we'll go," George told her, smiling back. "It's a ten minute drive, or a half-hour walk- take your pick."

"A walk would be nice," Izzie said, glancing out the window. "It really is a lovely day."

George nodded. "Just let me get my wallet."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Town, Izzie thought as they walked along the main street of the farming community known as Wren, was a loose term for it.

From the street, you could see most of the rest of the little hamlet, which seemed to consist of a small school, an even smaller fire department, a church, and a few shops. There were a handful of houses scattered off the main road, but most people, George had explained, lived in more rural homes, like his.

"That's where my mother is teaching today," George said, pointing to the school. The lettering on the side pronounced it to be St. Christopher's Elementary.

"Is that where you went?" Izzie asked curiously.

"No," he told her. "I was in twelfth grade when we moved out here. The high school is a forty minute bus ride east of Wren, in Ellensburg."

They continued on like that for a bit, walking side-by-side along the narrow sidewalk, with George explaining the ins and outs of the town. He seemed bored by it, but Izzie, who had spent her life after Chehalis hopping from one big college town to the next, was charmed.

They eventually made their way to a store labeled "Kennedy's Grocery", and George held the door for her as they stepped inside. The bell chimed merrily, and the woman at the counter looked up from her novel as they entered. When she caught sight of George, her eyes widened in surprise.

"Hello, Mrs. Kennedy," George said warmly.

"George O'Malley," she beamed, coming around the counter to give him a hug. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you around here again, now that you're a big surgeon and all."

George bore the good-natured teasing with smile, but Izzie saw him tense at the word 'surgeon'. She discreetly pressed light fingers against his back, a small comfort that he leaned into gratefully.

"I'm visiting mom," he explained.

Mrs. Kennedy nodded, seriously. "Good on you." She shot an inquisitive glance in Izzie's direction. "And is this your wife?"

George went rigid beneath her touch, and Izzie let her hand fall away, heat rising in her face at those innocent, ignorant words. The ironic thing, she thought, was that a month ago this probably would have made them both laugh.

The woman continued, oblivious to the sudden tension she had created. "Your mother told us about the big news, you know. A little strange, eloping in Vegas, but to each his own I always say." She turned to Izzie, looked her up and down. "You would have made a beautiful bride," she remarked.

Izzie paled at that. Denny was not a new hurt by any means, but it was the type of wound that still ached sometimes, like an old fracture on a rainy day, and Mrs. Kennedy words were a painful reminder of scars that Izzie would rather forget she had. She caught George's quick, concerned glance in her peripheral vision, before he hastily interceded.

"Er," he stammered. "Actually, Mrs. Kennedy, this is Izzie Stevens- my _friend_. Izzie, this is Elaine Kennedy. I went to school with her son."

Izzie held out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Oh," Mrs. Kennedy seemed taken aback. "Pleasure." She gave George a funny look, but whatever she thinking, she didn't say it out loud, and Izzie was grateful, for everyone's sake.

"How are Jake and Emily?" George asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from the topic of his marriage for the second time that day.

"Fine, fine. Jake's still with the Reserve, you know. We're quite proud," she told them. "But Emmy's gone and married that fellow from Spokane. Only twenty-one years old, and married. And do you know what he _does_, George? He plays in a band. That's his _job_." She shook her head, and sighed. "Young people these days; always rushing into everything."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Izzie nudged George and said, "Well, we should get shopping..."

"Oh, of course, of course," Mrs. Kennedy said, waving them off. "I'll be here to check you out when you're done."

George grabbed a basket from the stack by the door, and bolted to the nearest aisle. Izzie gave the woman a polite smile, and hurried after him.

"Well," she said, once they were out of earshot, "that was awkward."

"Yeah," George muttered. "One of the disadvantageous of a small town is the guarantee of running into someone you know."

"Hm," Izzie agreed absently, feigning an indifference she didn't really feel.

Their brief conversation with Mrs. Kennedy had dredged up too many things she was trying to forget at the moment, illuminated possibilities that she had been attempting to convince herself would never come to fruition. And, of course, reminded her all to well of the reason they never would. Because no matter how many times they kissed in elevators, no matter how many embarrassing confessions of love she made, George was still married, and Izzie was still just the dirty mistress.

George had yet to bring up her declaration to him, and Izzie strangely glad of that. There was a part of her- a small part, but it was there- that was grateful that he didn't seem to return her feelings, appeared to want to sweep it all under the rug as if it had never happened. And she'd be lying if she said she wasn't a bit relieved by that. This thing they had right now, this friendship that was a little like a lifeline to both of them, was good, and right, and she understood it was a clarity that, in her experience, was rare. She had a bond with George that she never thought she'd be lucky enough to share with anyone. No matter what else they were, they were friends first, and Izzie could be content with that.

It was enough. It had to be enough.

...But sometimes, it wasn't.

Beside her, George cleared his throat, and Izzie snapped back to moment, quickly refocusing her attention on the shelf in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see George shaking his head a bit, as if he, too, had only just come back to himself.

"So, what are you going to make?" he asked finally.

"Oh," Izzie said, reaching out to grab a bag of icing sugar off the shelf and placing it in the basket he carried, "I was thinking of doing a raspberry-chocolate Bundt cake."

George looked at her, considering. "I don't think I've ever seen you make that before."

Izzie nodded, adding a bottle of vanilla extract to the basket. "It's a new recipe I just learned," she told him. "Alex seems to think it's a winner, though, so I'm going to go with it."

There was a flicker of something– jealousy?– in his eyes, but it was gone before she could truly place it, and she chalked it up to wishful thinking.

"You trust his opinion?"

"Food," Izzie said sagely, attempting to lighten the mood, "is the one thing I know men never lie about."

"Ah," George said. "Well, my mother does love raspberries."

"Perfect," Izzie smiled. They had reached the produce section, and she walked over to the raspberry stand, picking up a package and examining it critically. "We'll need two of these," she said, and George nodded and came over to join her in searching for the best berries.

There was something distinctly intimate, Izzie decided, as they rummaged through cartons of raspberries, about this kind of domestic activity. It was odd how something so normal, so everyday and ordinary, could make her feel so alive just because she was doing it with him.

And that was the root of the problem, really, because all resolve aside, if Izzie was completely honest with herself, the thought of her and George as something more than just friends thrilled her. She had felt that thrill last night, when he'd held her hand, and again just now, as his arm brushed up against hers. It was electric, and undeniable, and it was just about driving Izzie insane, making her heart pound with the sheer potential of it.

Which was why she shouldn't be here. It wasn't wise, and it wasn't exactly healthy, either. She had told herself she was finished pining over things she couldn't have. But she _was_ here, and whether or not she should, she _wanted_ to be. She wanted to be anywhere George was.

She just wished she could be sure that was what he wanted too. She wished she could be sure if he was even coming back to Seattle at all...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen smelled heavenly.

That was what George was thinking later that afternoon, as he stood in front of the stove stirring a pot of slowly melting chocolate. It was going to be drizzled on the cake, which now sat cooling on a rack on the counter behind him, a tasty looking confection that Izzie had, as usual, baked to perfection.

George, who had only ever been a passive observer of Izzie's baking, had been surprised to find, when they'd arrived back at the house, that she expected him to be an active participant of the process this time around. And it had been surprisingly fun, assisting her in the kitchen, even if George had felt a little inadequate next to her obvious genius.

"George, you have to keep stirring that, or it's going to burn."

George looked up from the pot to find Izzie watching him, her eyebrows raised expectantly beneath the purple bandana she'd donned to hold back her long hair.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, and resumed his stirring.

Izzie nodded, and turned back to her own task of preparing the berry sauce that was the other topping for the cake. His gaze lingered on her, noting the relaxed set of her shoulders, the slight wrinkle of her brow as she concentrated on measuring out a cup of icing sugar. His hands twitched with the effort, but George suppressed the urge to reach out and smooth those wrinkles away.

To touch her at all, really, which was a dangerous inclination. Izzie was always irresistible, but especially so when she was happy. And George loved to see her happy.

The chocolate began to bubble, and he lowered the heat setting on the burner, as he had been instructed to do. "I think the chocolate sauce is done."

Izzie glanced over. "Okay. Just cover it, and then you can leave it for a bit."

He did as she said, and then walked over to lean against the counter she was working at. He watched as she mashed a concoction of berries and sugar into a pulpy syrup.

"Spatula?" she asked.

"Spatula," he repeated, handing it to her. It was like some strange of parody of surgery, like assisting in an operation where Izzie was point, and George shook his head. Even here, they couldn't escape the hospital. The thought was amusing to him, and he chuckled darkly.

Izzie looked up at him, a question in her eyes, and to George's surprise, there was hardly any bitterness in his voice when he spoke his thoughts aloud, saying, "I guess this is what it'll be like now, you the giving orders, me following them."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You know, with you being a resident, and me an intern." He shrugged, half-smiling to let her know it was all right.

Izzie stared at him, a tentative hope in her eyes. "So..." she began uncertainly, "does this mean you're coming back to Seattle Grace?"

Did it? It was, George understood suddenly, really the only option. Because he realized, he couldn't abandon his life in Seattle, couldn't abandon _Izzie_. He didn't think he could exist somewhere she wasn't. He didn't think he _wanted_ to.

Once the decision was made, it seemed obvious, and George nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does."

Izzie's smile was blinding. "I'm glad, George."

And, George was surprised to find, so was he. They stood grinning stupidly at each other for a moment, and then Izzie turned away, back to her sauce. He watched as she exchanged the spatula for a wooden spoon, scooping up a small portion of the topping.

"Here," she offered, holding it out to him. "Taste."

George stepped closer to her, his hand coming up to circle her wrist, holding it steady as he leaned in toward the spoon. Her eyes widened, and he suddenly realized that she had probably meant for him to take the utensil himself. But he was this far into the act, so he figured he might as well keep going. His mouth closed around the spoon and the sweet taste on his tongue was nothing compared to the sparks in his stomach when he caught the raw look Izzie's eyes.

George's mouth slid slowly from the spoon and he swallowed, the sugary syrup feeling thick in his throat when he saw her gaze drop to his lips. He hadn't let go of her wrist, and he was hyperaware of her smooth skin under his fingertips, the warm pulse of her heartbeat. His skin tingled where they touched, and he wondered if she could feel it too, wondered if he was imagining the faint blush blossoming across her face as they stared at each other. George's eyes slid to her lips, which were parted slightly, and he couldn't stop himself from remembering the feel of them, from wanting to feel them again against his own. He could feel himself leaning in, closer, closer...

The _BANG_ of the door opening sent them flying apart like guilty teenagers.

"Hello!" his mother called cheerily from the hall. "Is anyone home?"

George forced himself to breathe, trying slow the rapid beat of his heart. "In here," he answered, hoping his voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt. He was reeling with a strange mix of desire and disappointment, and when glanced over to see if Izzie was similarly affected, he was a little disconcerted to find that she was busy looking anywhere but at him.

"Something smells good," his mother said, entering the kitchen.

"We, uh, baked," George told her unnecessarily.

"Yes, I can tell." She glanced between them uncertainly, perhaps sensing the tension in the room. "What did you make?"

"Raspberry-chocolate Bundt cake," Izzie said, apparently finding her voice. George tried to catch her eyes, but she ducked her head, reaching back to work at the knot on her bandana. "I hope you like it."

"Sounds delicious," Mrs. O'Malley assured her, coming over to inspect their work. "It'll go lovely with the dinner I was planning to make." She beamed at them. "You two are so sweet to make dessert."

"It was Izzie's idea," George told her.

"It was no problem, really," Izzie smiled, pulling the bandana from her head. "It was..." and here she glanced quickly at George, "...fun."

Mrs. O'Malley smiled back, and then reached over to pluck the cloth from Izzie's hands. "Here, sweetie," she said. "Let me iron that for you."

George let out a short bark of laughter at the absurdity of that, and both women turned to stare at him. He caught Izzie's gaze, and they exchanged a look. He could see her eyes shining with mirth as she tried to hold back her laughter, lips twitching with the effort. It was in vain, though, and she started to giggle, causing a wide grin to break out over his face.

And then they were laughing, hysterically, George bent over grasping his knees, and Izzie clutching her stomach. George's mother looked on in astonishment, as if wondering whether she should call the asylum to come take them away. The look on her face only made him laugh harder, and George sank to the floor, knees too weak to support him any longer. Izzie collapsed down next to him, laughing just as uncontrollably.

He hadn't laughed this hard in a while, George thought, as Izzie's head fell onto his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck. He hadn't _laughed_ in a while.

It felt good.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Everything _Grey's Anatomy_ related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)

The Sun From Both Sides

_"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott_

* * *

-Chapter Six-

_"George."_

The whisper was a warm breath in his ear, and George stirred, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

He opened his eyes, and Izzie was there, leaning over him in the dark. She was illuminated only by moonlight, her eyes bright in the reflected glow, and on her lips was that smile, the one he had been dreaming about. She was beautiful, and George felt something rise up within his chest, an awed sort of happiness that had him reaching up to place a reverent hand on her face. His thumb stroked a gentle line across her cheekbone, and Izzie closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. He couldn't resist then, drawing her down into a tender kiss. Her warm, willing lips parted against his, and it was everything he remembered and more.

"Izzie," he murmured against her lips, and she smiled again, bringing one leg up and over to straddle him. He gasped as he realized that she was naked, that he could feel every curve of her body against his.

"Like that?" she whispered, and he could only respond by pulling her back down into another passionate kiss. The ends of her long, pale hair brushed against his chest, and George slid his hands into it, holding it back out of her face.

Izzie broke the kiss, and straightened, shifting back against him teasingly just _there_. She grinned when he moaned, and started to grind her hips in a rhythm that had him chanting her name like a prayer. "Izzie, Izzie, Izzie..."

He felt her reach down to pull him out of his boxers, and then she lifted herself on and down and he was suddenly sinking into a warm, wet heat that was the best thing he had ever felt. His hands grasped her hips as she found a new rhythm, and now she was panting in pleasure, too, as she rode him.

He tried to keep his eyes open, to watch her as she moved, an unearthly silhouette in the moonlight, but it was all too good, and his eyes shuttered, head tilting back against his pillow...

A droplet of something warm and wet fell onto his chest, followed by another, and another. Confused, George opened his eyes. Izzie was staring down at him, tears falling from her eyes.

"Izzie," he said anxiously, reaching up to cup both damp cheeks in his hands, "what's wrong?"

"George," she whispered, sounding anguished. "Why?"

And it wasn't Izzie's voice at all anymore- it was Callie's. George tried to comfort her, but her sobs only grew louder, and the tears kept pouring down her face until-

_CRASH._

He woke with a start, panting as he stared up at the ceiling, aroused and horrified. Another crash of thunder sounded, and George realized that must have been what had woken him. There was rain pouring in from his open window, and he put a hand to his chest, felt the dampness there that he had not imagined.

He groaned, and rubbed his eyes. His mind was cruel, he thought, to turn such a wonderful dream into a nightmare. He had already cheated on Callie in reality- now he was doing it in his dreams, as well? He really was a horrible person. And to make matters worse, he was still hard.

George turned his head slightly to glance at the clock on his bedside table: 9:10 a.m., it read. He might as well get up. Wincing slightly, George climbed out of bed. There was a wet, sticky patch on his boxers that made him grimace, and he quickly exchanged them for a clean pair, carefully pulling his jeans from yesterday on over top.

His walk to the bathroom was uncomfortable one, and that managed to distract him enough that he didn't register the sound of the shower running until it was too late. He opened the door, and froze.

And this just wasn't _fair_, because Izzie was in the shower, wet, and naked, and just a shadowed glass pane away. He could see the outline of her figure, as she moved beneath the spray, and he felt himself harden all over again.

Izzie must have felt the cool air drifting in from the open door, because she called out, tentatively, "George?"

And that shocked him back to life. "Uh, sorry," he said, mortified, and bolted from the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

He leaned back against it, and sighed, frustrated. Why was this so difficult? He had lived with Izzie before, had shared a bathroom with her, even. He had spent many mornings with her as she pranced around in her underwear, teasing and taunting and sharing his toothbrush. But here, now, the situation was not as innocent as it had been when he'd lived at Meredith's. He and Izzie had not been housemates for a while, certainly not since they'd slept together, and George wasn't used to seeing her away from the hospital.

It occurred to him then that he was in so, so much trouble. Because Izzie was probably the most attractive creature on the planet, and she was here- with him- and definitely nowhere near a hospital.

And the truth was, George didn't know how much longer he could keep fighting this thing between them. He didn't even know if he wanted to.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rain continued to fall through the morning, and by early afternoon, both George and Izzie were going a little out of their minds. The concept of vacation was completely foreign to them after their hectic year at Seattle Grace, and they were at a loss for what to do, unused to having so much free time on their hands.

They'd trailed after Mrs. O'Malley for a while, like two bored children whose summer vacation had lost its novelty, doing chores, and helping her out around the house, until she'd finally shooed them away, claiming she wanted to catch up on some reading.

So they'd gone to the kitchen instead, and made macaroni and cheese for lunch, which had given George some unfortunate flashbacks of his years as a college undergrad. When he'd mentioned that to Izzie, it had led to a discussion about their college experiences, and they'd compared classes and shared stories until they'd finally run out of words.

Now they sat at the kitchen table, picking at the remains of their dessert, the cake they'd made yesterday. The rain fell steadily outside the window, a dreary but appropriate soundtrack to their boredom.

George sighed, wondering when they'd forgotten how to function outside the walls of a hospital. "We could play a game," he suggested.

Izzie raised her head from where it had been resting in her crossed arms on the table. "A game?" she asked. "I'm intrigued. What kind of game?"

"Come on," George said, pushing back his chair, and leading her toward the stairs that would take them down into the basement. "My mom kept all our old board games. I think she's been holding out for grandchildren."

Izzie made a small, involuntary noise, and he turned to glance back at her. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind."

George looked at her doubtfully, but didn't press the issue.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a door leading into a small closet, and he headed toward it. The door creaked with disuse as he opened it, reaching blindly inside for the string he knew was there. He found it, and pulled, and a single, bright bulb illuminated the small space before them, revealing that the closet was filled top to bottom with one big shelf covered in board games.

"Wow," Izzie said. "That's a lot of games."

George shrugged. "Well, my parents had three boys to keep entertained." He reached in and pulled out a dust-covered box. "Monopoly?"

Izzie raised an eyebrow. "With two people?" she asked skeptically.

"Yeah, maybe not." He slid the game back onto the shelf. The next box he grabbed contained Scrabble, and George quickly shoved it to the back of the closet, out of sight. He picked up a smaller, more colourful box instead, holding it up for Izzie's inspection. "Candy Land?" he offered.

"Seriously, George?"

He grinned. "And here I thought you had a sweet tooth." He didn't have to turn around to know she was rolling her eyes.

He rifled through a few more games, before Izzie stopped him.

"Wait," she said, placing a hand on his arm. "Is that... Operation?" She sounded excited.

"Uh... no," George said slowly, using his body to try to block her view of the shelf. "No it is not."

But it was too late. "Come on, George," Izzie pleaded. "I've always wanted to play that game."

"It's so annoying though," he protested half-heartedly, "and loud and stupid. And why would you want to operate on a fake person, anyway? It's totally lame."

"Who are you, Cristina?" she asked.

"It's _lame_," he repeated. "And did I mention the loud and stupid?"

Izzie stuck out her lower lip. "Please?"

And how could he resist her when she looked at him like that, all wide-eyed and earnest? He couldn't, and she knew it.

George sighed. "Fine," he said grudgingly, and Izzie clapped her hands as he brought out the game.

"You're the best, George!" she told him, and George rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help the smile that stole across his face.

They took the box upstairs to the living room and settled down onto the carpet. The game itself was fairly uncomplicated, and it didn't take them long to get into it.

Izzie, who could be as competitive as any other surgeon when she chose to be, was serious about the game, focusing hard to cure their 'patient' of his ailments. George, on the other hand, had played Operation enough times to know it was futile to even hope he'd do well at it. Instead, he leaned back against the couch and allowed himself the guilty pleasure of watching Izzie.

She was so beautiful, he reflected, that it hurt to look at her sometimes, left his head pounding and his heart aching from wanting her. He'd always wanted Izzie: he knew that now. And he was both amazed and terrified by the fact that she claimed to want him back.

He still didn't know what to think about that, or even if it was really true. When she had told him in the scrub room that she didn't have feelings for him, it had been painful, but so easy to believe. Her confession in the locker room, however, was more difficult to trust. George wasn't supposed to get the girl, especially not a girl like Izzie.

He watched her now, as she concentrated on the game. She'd let her hair dry naturally and the damp air had made it curl into soft ringlets that fell across her face as she leaned over the game board. George wanted nothing more in that moment than to reach out and slide his fingers into it, like he had in his dream.

But he didn't have the right, had given up the right when he'd married another woman, and now Izzie was even farther out of his league than before. So he'd have to content himself with looking.

And, really, that wasn't so bad. In fact, it was rather amusing at the moment, watching her start and curse every time she made the game's buzzer go off.

"How is it possible," Izzie asked, the funny bone piece slipping from her grasp, "that we're so terrible at this game? We're actual _surgeons_!" The buzzer went off again as the metal tweezers she held bumped the side of the cavity, and Izzie sat back in disgust. "Oh, my _god_, I hate this game!"

"I tried to warn you," George said, biting his lip to hold back his laughter.

Sensing his amusement, Izzie shot him a glare. "Shut up," she said. "It's your turn."

George grinned, and reached for a card. _Butterflies in the stomach-_ how timely.

Predictably, he failed miserably at extracting the little white piece, and was soon handing the tweezers back over to Izzie, asking, "Did you want to have another go? Or should I go get Candy Land?"

Izzie stuck her tongue out at him, and swiped a card from the pile between them.

"Your maturity astounds," George told her. "What'd you get?"

Izzie met his eyes. "A broken heart."

"Oh," he said stupidly.

She looked away then, and there was quiet as she tried gamely to pull the piece from the cavity. Then the buzzer shrieked, and Izzie threw her hands up in the air.

"That's it!" she exclaimed. "I give up! Cavity Guy is just going to have to live with all his spare ribs and Charley horses."

"Sounds good to me," George muttered, flopping back onto the rug. "Did you want to pick another game?"

"Not really," Izzie muttered, drawing her knees up to her chest. She rested her chin on them, and tilted her head, considering. "Do you have any movies?" she asked.

George smiled. "Let's go find out."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They'd gotten through _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ without incident, but George's stomach started growling halfway into _Temple of Doom._

Izzie glanced up at him from her prone position on the floor in front of the couch. "Snack time?" she asked, sounding amused.

George nodded, and reached for the remote to pause the movie. By now, it was dark outside, and the only illumination in the room came from the TV screen. He turned on a nearby lamp, and stood, offering one hand to help Izzie up. She smiled and took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

His mother was still upstairs, preparing notes for a class, so the rest of the floor was just as dark as the living room had been, and George flicked on a few more lights as he and Izzie made their way to the kitchen.

"So what do you feel like eating?"

Izzie shrugged. "I don't know. Nothing heavy."

"We could make popcorn, or something," George suggested.

"Popcorn sounds good," Izzie nodded. "Where do you keep the bags?"

George had a sudden thought. "Let's do stove-popped," he said. "I haven't had it for a while."

"Stove-popped?" Izzie asked, looking at him questioningly.

George stared at her. "You've never had stove-popped corn before?"

"No..."

"Then that's definitely what we're making," he told her. "You've been missing out."

Izzie looked unconvinced. "That has yet to be proven," she pointed out.

"You'll see," George said, opening a nearby cabinet where he was pleased to find his mother still kept the oil and corn kernels. "Could you grab a pot? The medium one."

Izzie obliged, opening the drawer beneath the stove, while George went to the fridge for some butter.

"Okay," he said, setting everything on the counter, "first, we need to put a bit of oil in the pot, just enough to cover the bottom..."

He continued to talk her through the process. It was a complete role reversal from yesterday, he reflected, as he showed her how to shake the pot over the burner to keep the kernels from burning. Izzie still looked at bit skeptical about the whole thing, until they heard the unmistakable sound of the first few kernels popping, and then she smiled.

"Not long now," he told her.

Eventually, the corn began to pop in earnest, and the noise it made against the metal lid made Izzie laugh, a bubbly, joyful sound that had George grinning.

When it was finished, they dumped the popcorn into a large bowl, and George put a chunk of butter in the still-hot pot to melt for topping.

"The butter is what makes it good," he said, and Izzie nodded in agreement.

After he'd drizzled the butter onto the popcorn, Izzie popped a piece of it in her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. "Good!" she declared. "Nice work, George."

"Couldn't have done it without my lovely assistant," he said, smiling at her.

Izzie laughed. "Just call me Vanna," she replied, and George chuckled.

It was so easy, being with Izzie, participating in the playful back-and-forth of their banter. He loved it. He loved _her_. He was in love with Izzie Stevens, he realized, the thought dawning like a clear day after weeks and weeks of rain.

And it was so obvious, so inevitable. It made George think back to the embarrassing moment in the grocery store, when Mrs. Kennedy has mistaken Izzie for his wife. If a total stranger could see the connection between them, what did the people closest to them see?

He had been annoyed at Callie's jealousy, but now it was clear that her fears had been real, that she had seen what he had missed. It made so much sense, because this thing between him and Izzie has never really felt like a mistake- unexpected; yes, shocking; definitely- but never wrong, and that had been the problem from the start. George hadn't meant to sleep with his best friend, but his real mistake had been marrying Callie.

He was in love with Izzie. He just didn't quite know what to do about it.

The thought was still racing through his mind as they settled on couch, bowl of popcorn between them. Izzie must have read something of those thoughts on his face, because she leaned toward him and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Fine," George told her, forcing himself to push his revelation aside. "Just fine."

Izzie nodded, and returned her attention to the television. He followed her lead, and they made fun of Indiana Jones' helpless love-interest until the movie ended, and George got up to put in the third tape.

"This is my favourite of the series," he commented, pulling _The Last Crusade_ from its box.

"I'm still partial to _Raiders_," Izzie told him.

"But _Crusade_ has Sean Connery in it," George pointed out.

She shrugged. "He's overrated."

George turned to stare at her over his shoulder. "Seriously?" he asked, and she nodded. "Well, no accounting for taste."

Izzie made a face, and tossed a piece of popcorn at him. "Don't _even_."

George grinned, and pressed the play button. When he returned to the couch, he found that Izzie had moved the almost empty bowl on the floor. He hesitated momentarily, daunted by the idea that there would be nothing between them now, nothing to stop him from leaning over to feel the warmth of her body against his own, and then shook his head, and made himself sit, deciding his impulse control couldn't be _that_ bad.

If Izzie noticed his brief uncertainty, she didn't let on, and they settled peacefully into the movie.

They were three-quarters of the way through before George felt a warm weight on his shoulder. He turned slightly to find that Izzie had fallen asleep, and he sucked in a nervous breath. It wasn't an unfamiliar situation- they had watched dozens of movies together, and there had been other times when she'd fallen asleep against him- but somehow, with everything that had happened, it prickled at his nerves in a new, though not uncomfortable, way.

George reached over to put a gentle hand around her waist, drawing Izzie closer so that she was resting more comfortably against his chest. She shifted a bit in her sleep, but didn't wake, and he smiled fondly, giving in to the by-now familiar urge to stroke a hand over her silky blond hair. It was soft beneath his fingertips, and smelled so clean, and sweet, and Izzie-like, that George couldn't resist leaning down to press a kiss onto the crown of her head.

When he raised his head, his mother was in the entranceway of the room, watching him. He could see her expression in the blue glow from the screen, and it was an odd mixture of puzzlement and affection.

He also could see that she had something to say, and that she wanted to say it in private, so he put a hand on Izzie's shoulder, shaking her gently awake.

"Hey," he murmured. "Iz, wake up."

She lifted her head, blinking sleepily at him. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Time for bed," George's mother said, and Izzie turned, surprised by her presence.

"Oh," she said. "Okay." She sat up, and George felt a little dismayed at the loss of her warmth.

Izzie stood, and headed toward the stairs, but when George didn't follow, she hesitated, looking back at him.

"I'll be up in a minute," he told her, exchanging a glace with his mother. "I just want to talk to my mom for a bit."

Izzie nodded in understanding, and left them be, murmuring her good nights as she ascended that stairs.

"I've always liked that girl," his mother said, as they watched her go.

"Yeah," George said softly, and the affection was obvious in it, even to him.

Mrs. O'Malley looked at her son, a contemplative expression on her face. "She cares about you, you know. That isn't something that should be taken for granted."

George was surprised at her insight, though not by her words, which he knew to be true. "I know," he said.

"I just want you to be happy, Georgie," she told him, coming to sit down next to him on the couch.

"I know," George repeated softly.

"You're not happy. Or at least," she said, fixing him was a knowing look, "you weren't before Izzie got here."

He wasn't really sure what she expected him to say to that, so he only nodded slightly, waiting.

His mother met his eyes, and asked, "Are you having problems with your marriage, George? Is that why you're here?"

He shook his head, unsure of how much to reveal, but unable to lie to her. "Sort of. It's complicated."

His mother looked like she wanted to press this issue, but stopped herself. Instead, she said, sadly, "You never invited us to the wedding."

George reached for her hand. "That's because there _was_ no wedding, mom. It was very... sudden."

She studied his face. "Do you regret it?" she asked, and he was a little shocked at her boldness.

"I... sometimes," he confessed. "And more so than usual lately." He paused, took a breath, before blurting out, "But, mom, I can't just... You and dad were together for so long! I shouldn't just give up. I should work harder, right? I should make it work..."

Mrs. O'Malley considered that for a long time before answering, and when she did, it was in a soft tone that made George sit up and listen.

"Your father and I were together for forty years," she began, "and I am grateful for every single one of those years. I'll admit, sometimes it was a struggle, but, George," she looked at him, "it shouldn't be _all_ work.

"Now, I don't know Callie very well," she continued, "though I'm sure she must be a lovely girl, or you wouldn't have married her. But," she said seriously, "I think you need to ask yourself: is Callie the person you want to spend the next forty years of your life with?"

That night, it took George a long time to fall asleep.

* * *


End file.
